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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849239">the temptation that is you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/2009/pseuds/2009'>2009</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bandom, My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Break Up, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:49:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/2009/pseuds/2009</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"i just want you to stick around long enough to realize i'm worth all of the trouble i cause."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero/Gerard Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the temptation that is you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>finally wrote the fic i've been meaning to write for 7 years and all it took was a fucking pandemic. this is kinda sad and i might write an alt ending because i hate the ending. very frank-centric but you'll get your angst. thanks for reading.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Set the scene: it’s only Tuesday, and he’s sitting on Gerard’s duvet for the fifth time this week, dirty shoes kicked up on the blankets. But while he’s usually sprawled out on his own, or with Gerard nestled into his chest or pushed up against his back, he instead finds himself curled in a variation of the fetal position. He’s playing with a thread loose on his jeans, one from the many holes he’s yet to patch or tape or sew or whatever, eyes downcast and teary. His heart is in his fucking ass.</p>
<p>“Frank—are you even listening to me?”</p>
<p>He has to swallow the lump in his throat before he nods his head. He knows he looks mopey as fuck. Gerard lets out a sigh, like it hurts him, but like this is his point. And then he says, “This is exactly my point.” Frank gives a sigh of his own. “You—you know I still love you. And this hurts me too. I just,” another sigh, and he’s caressing Frank’s face in his hands, looking him in the eyes.</p>
<p>When Frank blinks, the tears fall. It’s not dramatic, at least he hopes it’s not, ‘cause that’s what this whole fucking mess is about. He’s dramatic, and has issues, and Gerard’s grown past his own issues and loves Frank but he’s exhausting. Plus there’s the whole Gerard-art-school-college thing; Frank has no future unless he wants to become serious about selling pot, and he’s really not the type. His mom screams at him about his “lack of direction” almost everyday, he doesn’t need his almost ex-boyfriend doing the same.</p>
<p>Gerard kisses him softly, and gives him a smile. An angrier, more feral side of Frank wants to punch him in his tiny fucking teeth. He gives him a kiss back, with a lopsided tug of the lips afterwards, and Gerard brushes a thumb over his bottom lip. “You’re my best friend,” Gerard says, voice going higher.</p>
<p>“That’s not an apology,” Frank’s gone cross-eyed from following Gerard’s hands, and he pulls away from his touch. Then he furrows his brow and frowns. He can’t help it; he has no poker face, no desire to acquire one. The anger is starting to seep in. “Don’t apologize, it’s not a fucking—a fucking sides thing.”</p>
<p>Gerard furrows his own brows. They have a lot of the same mannerisms. Frank guesses that’s what happens when you invest yourself in someone for two years. He stands up straight, crosses his arms over his chest. “I never said it was a sides thing.”</p>
<p>“Well I don’t want your pity,” Frank says, feet planted on the ground. He’s ready to blast when Gerard starts talking, because he knows the only person who thinks he’s right is him. He knows his therapist would tell him to take some deep breaths and try to process the pain without the anger. As far as he’s concerned right now, that bitch can go fuck herself.</p>
<p>Frank’s grabbing his board, putting his wallet into his pocket and putting his smoke sack onto his back, when Gerard starts really going off.</p>
<p>“I’m not giving you pity! I’m trying to fucking help you—you can’t be fucking happy with anything, can you? I try to be sensitive and caring and shit, you throw it in my fucking face and spit on it. I know it’s hard for you but can you just,” he throws his fasts down by his side before uncurling one to cover his face. His cheeks are red. “You don’t make it easier for anyone around you, you know? Honestly, Frank, you have shit you need to work on. I worked on mine!”</p>
<p>“I’m not you,” he says, and leaves. Gerard’s parents look at him, pity in their eyes as he passes by the kitchen. Frank doesn’t know if he’s imagining shit or not, if they knew this whole time, but he knows they’re never up this late. So he gives a tight-lipped smile and leaves, too.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It’s not raining yet, but it’s getting there. Frank weaves between the New Jersey potholes. He’s mostly going by muscle-memory now, because the road is blurry. But it’s nighttime and the roads are wide, clear, and open, so no one will see him cry. Therefore he doesn’t give much of a shit.</p>
<p>Gerard lives in the town over, so he has a decent amount of time till he gets home, skating through the side streets. The sound of wheels on broken concrete is nice, pairing well with the wind that whips through his hair and past his ears, early spring frost still biting at his nose. He needs to skate on the highway, kinda, where there’s a weird, stray sidewalk no one uses, overrun by ugly weeds. Usually he’d shove some earbuds in his ears for comfort because it can get kind of spooky. He comes to a hard stop, nearly making him stumble, reaching for the tangled chord. It’s harder to get his shit together now, like he’s all off-kilter; he doesn’t even change the playlist before he’s pressing play.</p>
<p>He’s by the 7-11 that rests at the edge of town, where there’s always some cops and a bunch of teenage burnouts (not much unlike himself) that hang in the parking lot. It, too, is overrun by weeds. Frank doesn’t usually stop there—slurpees just make him gag now, he’s past that phase of life—but he always passes it on his route back from Gerard’s. Tonight is no different.</p>
<p>Since Sherman Street he’s been able to hold it together, mostly, and he’s approaching the bend of 7-11. It’s right where the street quality gets even worse, and there’s a bunch of weird divots and dips where the road goes from pedestrian to parkway. It looks like suburban ruin. There are man-made paths that lead behind the 7-11, deep into the woods behind it, for pot-smoking purposes, though they are mostly deserted by now. Frank always wanted to go in one when he was younger. Even though they’ve reached the AMs, three cars are parked outside the storefront. Someone is even at the redbox.</p>
<p>The song has simmered into nothingness. It’s one of those moody long-fades, supposed to catch you off guard or whatever. Frank looks ahead, bending his knees to absorb the shock of the uneven road, wrapped up in his journey. The music’s just kind of been background noise to his thoughts—a little rap, a little punk, a little metal. Some screaming, some guitar. A familiar riff.</p>
<p>hey coffee eyes / you got me coughing up my cookie heart</p>
<p>He’s skipped straight into Gerard’s playlist, the one that reminds him of when they just met and Frank fell in love too fast. He reacts viscerally. First, he stops skating. Then, he’s laughing. He picks up his board roughly, fucking laughing to himself, staring at his phone. His phone drops to the ground, unplugging from his earphones; those fall soon after, and Little League by Cap’n Jazz is ringing tinny in his ears. He’s laughing because it hurts so fucking bad—he starts to cry.</p>
<p>His streak since Sherman is gone now, and a bunch of his favorite fucking songs are ruined, and he swings his fucking skateboard at the concrete divider that both signifies the start of the highway and blocks off what belongs to 7-11. It cracks pretty violently, and he laugh-cries some more, twisting his body all the way around, a full three-sixty, to chip at the wood more. Something flies from one of the trucks, but he doesn’t care. He’s screaming, crying, laughing, mostly just yelling. He could fucking puke.</p>
<p>making promises to myself / promises like seeds / of everything i could be</p>
<p>His vision is spotty and weird from a lack of air intake and such violent movement, his throat hurts, and he’s got a broken board at his feet, cracked in half with some wood splintered off the edges. He kicks it. He’s got two more in his garage, so it doesn’t really matter. It does, because this is his favorite board. But it doesn’t, because he can’t bring himself to care, and Gerard also bought this board for him, come to fucking think. Toeing the wood over, there’s the desecrated face of a demon, wiry yet weirdly cute. He might just throw himself against the concrete this time, see if it’ll release some of the tension that boils inside of him. He pushes the broken pieces on the side of the road instead, though. He has a long walk home.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>He’s finally ready to get in bed, unshowered but home. His hair is damp from the mist that began to spray towards the end of his walk, so he feels clean enough. His mom was asleep when he got home, so he could grab a few beers from the fridge for himself. She works hard to keep them in a town so nice, even if their house is considered unkempt and small and on the “poor side” of middle class. Frank repays her by drinking all of her Pabst and smoking joints on the roof, making the hallway smell vaguely skunky the next morning.</p>
<p>He’s happy she’s not up, because she doesn’t know he’s a fag yet. Listen: she probably knows, a mother’s intuition or whatever, Frank knows that, and she probably wouldn’t give a fuck. She’s tolerant and accepting, and Frank’s done much, much worse than suck some dick. They’ve even had the awkward, stunted, “you know I love you no matter what” talk. But ultimately she’s a stoic catholic woman, so her and Frank don’t really talk about that stuff. It makes Frank feel weird. He doesn’t know why. Coming out via break up sounds pretty shit, too.</p>
<p>He smokes a whole blunt on the roof, a fat one to himself, and drinks two Pabsts. He’s pretty small, so he has a nice buzz going on. He listens to more tainted music, to force the tears out of his ducts, until his head is between his knees and he can smell his own beer breath. Usually, when he’s tipsy, he’ll call Gerard. They can talk for hours, or Gerard can, and Frank can listen to his voice. He’ll nod off and Gerard will tell him he can sleep if he wants to, but he doesn’t. “You’re like my bedtime story.”</p>
<p>Now he’s only got himself, and that never ends well. He’s sorting through situations in his head. Things that happened, things that could be happening, and other would’ve, could’ve, should’ves.</p>
<p>He remembers when Gerard and him would be talking, only an hour after Frank got home, because they couldn’t be away from each other. Gerard would be telling Frank about everything he’s got to do for the next day, for applying to school, his portfolio, because he procrastinates and leaves everything until the last minute just like Frank. He remembers early in their relationship, when they’d smoke on the phone together, and Gerard’s voice would get raspy and sexy. When Frank talked him through his trip just the other month, and Gerard told him about the room’s heartbeat and his own and how he’s pretty sure it aligns with Frank’s, he wishes he was there so he could just tell.</p>
<p>Or he remembers the time of night when Gerard’s voice got needier, almost a whisper so his family wouldn’t hear him, deeper but more broken. He remembers when he’d tell Gerard how to touch himself, how he wanted to touch him, compliment him and tell him how badly he wanted to kiss him and hurt him.</p>
<p>Frank inhales deeply through his nose, throwing the unlit roach he’s had clutched between his fingers into the garden below. He goes to crawl back through his window, back to safety. He wants to go to bed. He’s tired, with the dark circles beneath his eyes to prove it.</p>
<p>But he’s not really used to sleeping by himself. Not that they lived together, but they spent enough time together that it was weird when they were apart. When Gerard’s family took Frank on vacation down to the shore, Frank and Gerard shared a bed, all romantic context included. He used to make fun of people who, like, cuddled pillows and shit when they slept. But it’s lonely without another body. He turns onto his side, but his back is cold as shit. He feels weirdly light.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know how to comfort himself without thoughts of Gerard. When he couldn’t sleep before, he could almost imagine Gerard there. He’s bigger than Frank, but softer, balancing out the wiry tone of Frank’s own body. He smells really fucking good, and his hair would tickle Frank’s skin. His mouth formed a soft ring of pink, his eyelids twitched. Fantasies are just that when there’s no promise of pull through, though. It feels emptier than ever before.</p>
<p>He feels his cock drag against his sheets. It’s the memories of pale, unmarked skin, long fingers grasping at his body, the small fidgets and squirms that left pits in Frank’s gut. “You absolute fucking freak,” he says to no one in particular, frowning, wrapping his own fingers around himself.</p>
<p>He’s fucking crying, cheeks wet and red, body trembling. It’s a dumb fucking thought, but he didn’t even get to, like, hit it one last time. Something about that hurts, even though it makes him sound like fucking scum. He jerks himself off with gritted teeth, fast like he wants to get it over with. He hasn’t had to truly fucking jerk himself off in while. The emotional pain and physical pleasure mix weirdly. Masturbating definitely doesn’t feel as good when you’re the one doing it. And it’s pretty gross when he cums; he kind of just dozes off with it all over his stomach and hand. Gerard’s usually the one to get the towel and clean him up.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>When Frank wakes up, or rather is woken up by his alarm, he looks at his phone. The few seconds where he isn’t sure of reality is bliss, until it’s not. He’s used to a routine, a message or picture from Gerard, who’s always up until four or five before he sleeps, no exception; there’s no link or drawing or poem to wake up to, and it brings Frank back down. Far, far down. He grabs his spare Pabst and starts drinking. Hair of the dog, but for heartbreak.</p>
<p>His alarm clock blinks at 6:42. He wonders if it’s a good idea to get loaded before school. Definitely not his first time doing so—he’s invisible enough to fade into the back, but manic enough that something weird wouldn’t be out of the ordinary—and he settles for another beer with his toast. His mom is gone for work, so he has the next twenty minutes to fuck around before he’s gotta head to school. Fuck it, third beer. He leaves 5 minutes late anyways, at 7:08.</p>
<p>He’s a pro at tipsy skating because he’s done it so many times. Sad skating is much harder, if he’s honest. Something about liquor creates more flow. The ride to school is quicker than the ride to Gerard’s, he just needs to navigate more people, and fucking cars. The feeling of being exposed isn’t great, but that’s the nature of daylight. He and Gerard always fit because they were both basically nocturnal, except for when they couldn’t be. “I gotta get you on coffee,” Gerard would say. “Redbull tastes like fucking battery acid. And it’s really bad for you, you know.”</p>
<p>It hurts really bad, so he tells himself he can drink more during lunch. Senior privilege is kinda cool, even if he doesn’t have a car. He gets the same stomach-drop feeling when he approaches his school he has since the goddamn fourth grade, but it’s worse because he can’t text Gerard throughout the day.</p>
<p>Frank isn’t really a friend guy. Apparently he was really popular in his earlier years, a really smiley kid. He doesn’t really remember much before the third grade, mainly out of ignorance. Then there’s a blur up until, like, freshman year of high school. He remembers getting beat up a lot and feeling trapped in his own skin. He owes that one to a lot of shit, heavier, darker shit too, but then he met Gerard, who made it better. They made it better. Gerard was there to patch up the wounds, and he’d lick his scratches and cuts along the way, even if they were fucked up in the same ways and he was still bleeding himself. He didn’t need friends with Gerard, and he’d absolutely massacred his fucking reputation at that point. He was hard to deal with. That’s how people always phrased it to his mom. Troubled, an alternative path, finding his way.</p>
<p>Gerard wove himself into the fabric of Frank’s being, tightened up the seams. Maybe it’s fucked up, but Frank doesn’t know if he can function alone. There’s a piece of Gerard that’s stuck itself into all of Frank’s nooks and crannies. Fuck, he turns the too fast and he’ll get a whiff of him on his shirt collar. He’s coming undone.</p>
<p>It hurts really, really bad now, so he tells himself he’s going to go home after this period and go back to sleep. Gerard’s too embedded within his routine to get through the day, not while the gash is wide open. Still oozing. He’s not strong like that.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Another empty can added to the collection, and he’s face down on his bed. He can’t really breathe with his face pressed in the pillow, nose smushed, but maybe it’s better that way. If he’s lucky he’ll just fall asleep and, like, die. Actually not before the show this weekend, some screamy emo band and something metal, but afterwards. He’ll give smothering a go.</p>
<p>He must actually doze off somewhere between the self-loathing and pity, because he wakes up 	to the phone ringing. It’s the alarm he has set, the other one for the day, because it’s a Wednesday, and he has therapy. He has spit crusted dry on his cheek and puffy eyes, he can feel both, and twenty minutes to get there. So he hopes he doesn’t smell too bad and splashes some water on his face, wipes it off with his sleeve, and gets skatin’.</p>
<p>Apparently the same thing happens when people drive, but Frank can skate some places without even thinking about it. His mom won’t let him get his license, so he’s stuck on foot or board. Time gets lost when he’s skating, though, and it’s actually really nice. It’s like the only times things are actually peaceful. It’s like teleporting. Now, he’s teleported to his therapist’s office, which he actually doesn’t mind.</p>
<p>He used to fucking hate therapy, because it was school mandated. It was an alternative to a suspension going on his record. Then, after he got arrested, the state shelled out money for some more counselling. They wanted to send him to one of those wilderness programs, but Frank knows he’s not fucked up like that. He’s hard for the ‘burbs, he guesses, but he’s actually a big fucking softy. He’s just really fucking scared. His mom agreed because she got them to settle for some shitty outpatient program.</p>
<p>His mom still shells out two-hundred bucks a session in hopes it’ll do something, so Frank figures he might as well take advantage of it. He can shit talk whoever he wants, about whatever he wants. If he keeps his mouth open, she usually keeps hers shut. Frank’s also not trying to make her life harder. He’s not mean, she’s doing her job. He guesses she chose this profession because she’s, like, kind and shit. A little suspicious, but he can give her the benefit of the doubt.</p>
<p>She gives him a look when he sits in the leather armchair, so cliché. It’s understandable, the look, not the furniture. He’s not the most put together right now, a sleepy, stressed mess. Frank tucks a foot under his butt and chews on the inside of his cheek, looking right back at her.</p>
<p>There are tears in his eyes already. Fresh wound, still bleeding. He thinks he cries at therapy sometimes because he’s conditioned, Pavlov style. Dr. Springer asks how he’s doing and he’s word vomiting about how much he hates the world. She just thinks he’s bipolar. “Am I hard to deal with?”</p>
<p>“Not hard to deal with... I think you’re sensitive,” she says, playing with the heel of her pump. The question seems to take her by surprise momentarily. Maybe it’s because he does usually make an effort to make small talk at first, maybe it’s because he’s not really a question asker. Maybe it’s oddly introspective. “And stubborn, but you’re really, really just sensitive.”</p>
<p>If this was the first time he’d heard her talk about how sensitive he is, how he processes things differently, how he needs to work on his self-esteem, he’d be way less chill. But he’s come to accept he’s kind of a big loser underneath it all. He’s become accustomed to professionals looking at him and telling him he just needs a fucking chemical to function like a normal person in the world. Looking back on himself, an outsider’s perspective, he’s kind of a fuck. No wonder Gerard dropped him.</p>
<p>Dr. Springer writes something on top of the page of her notes, probably the date and Patient Number 0345 or some shit, before leaning back and giving him a small smile. His face must be so screwed up right now.</p>
<p>“Why do you ask? Did something happen?”</p>
<p>Usually Frank would just say it, but there’s a lump in his throat that won’t let him get the words out. She knows about Gerard, she can’t say shit, especially now that he’s eighteen. He hasn’t really told anyone about the break-up though. It’s only real to him and Gerard. Maybe Gerard’s parents, maybe some of his art school friends. Fuck.</p>
<p>His voice is thick when he says, “Bad fight with my mom,” chokes on it because he’s just a bad fucking liar. Gerard used to say he was so honest it made him a bad person. He coughs at Dr. Springer’s eyebrow raise. “...—Bad fight with Gerard.”</p>
<p>She still doesn’t look convinced, though. Gerard and Frank constantly argued; this isn’t the first time she’s seen Frank mid-fight, but usually he’s just kind of pissed. Gerard can be a fucking bitch—he’s not usually reducing Frank to a teary, mucousy, pathetic mess, though. That’s resigned for the scenarios about impending breakups and doom he stirs in his head. This is not supposed to be reality.</p>
<p>“I went over to his after school, like always, whatever. He has his last period off—you know this—his last period is fucking free, so I skip art to see him and he always gets pissed at me and then he drives us back to his so we can hang and shit. I guess it’s not after school. We just started fighting in the car, like, I don’t know. He doesn’t usually get that annoyed with me. And then it got worse and shit and we were like screaming at each other until he got all quiet and we went to his room and he told me he needed a break, or whatever,” he watches her head nods, subtle, faux-reassuring. It encourages him to keep going. Therapy really is brainwashing, no matter what Gerard says.</p>
<p>“I don’t even fucking know what a break is,” he says. His cheeks feel red and tight, there’s tears rolling down his face, and he’s using his sleeve to wipe at them every five fucking seconds. There’s a little snot too. Fucking nasty.</p>
<p>“Did he say why he needed a break?” Dr. Springer says, so calm it’s close to monotone.</p>
<p>“He said he needs to focus on himself. Which I get. But that also means I’m fucking hard to be around,” a deep breath through his nose, “and I don’t care, but he just was so fucking aggrivating, just like, apologizing. Like, you’re fucking breaking up with me.”</p>
<p>“Frank, you know there are many reasons for break-ups besides not being in love with someone. Or them being ‘hard to be around’. Whatever you’re reasoning,” she inquires. Frank wants to go, listen, Nance. I’d fucking die for this kid. He doesn’t, he just kind of ignores her.</p>
<p>“He just kept saying, like, you need to fix your shit. Apparently, fucking apparently, I have shit to be fixed.” That one gets an aggressive nod and a small, singular laugh from Dr. Springer. Frank grits his teeth. “He’s like, I know it’s hard for you. But he fucking doesn’t. It feels hollow, since he went to that fucking thing his parents put him on. He came back all skinny with, like, boundaries—”</p>
<p>“What feels hollow?” she cuts him off. Frank gives her the classic, “everything,” before spiralling back into his own rant. She stops him before he can get anywhere.</p>
<p>“Maybe it’s not hollowness, it’s just lighter. Everything is so heavy to you,” Nancy says, adjusting her glasses, and putting down her notebook. She has a maternal glint in her eye. “I know you think he’s not really happy, but have you looked at yourself?”</p>
<p>Frank screws up his eyebrows, knowingly this time, a frown etched on his lips. She gives another laugh, but it’s a sad one.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t have to be so serious. You’re not exactly radiating positivity. And not that you have to, in any means necessary—some people just aren’t like that, and I know you’ve been through a lot to request that of you—but you’re so not fine, Frank. Gerard was your buffer, now you have to keep the anger and depression from eating you up.” She tacks on, “You need to live for yourself.”</p>
<p>The whole thing makes Frank fist at the pillow besides. He’s at the point that he’s just mad he was born this way. He’s being told a bunch of things he knows, and a bunch of things he knows he can’t achieve. He doesn’t have the motivation to. He tends to wallow.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Friday night, too early for the show but too late for anything else. He’s looking at himself in the mirror, hyper focused. And usually he doesn’t give a shit, really, he’ll go out looking like a fucking wreck and come out even worse. But his hair’s got to be nice, his outfit needs to show off the scattered tattoos he’s collected over the months. Some of the pieces are pretty big and nice, the pumpkin on his back, the doves on his hips. Then there’s the etchings of pentagrams and 666 and dicks and names collected between the lines. He goes for a white shirt, some shredded jeans, an army jacket.</p>
<p>He even takes the time to look in the mirror and poke himself in the eyes for a bit. It’s an eyeliner pencil Gerard definitely left. Frank hasn’t had makeup of his own for a while, for years by now, ‘cause Gerard would always do it for some weird art show events or shows once in a while or if they were just hanging out. He remembers when Gerard put deep red lipstick on him and made Frank go down on him. Fuck.</p>
<p>He draws a thick line on his lid, relatively close to his lashes, then rubs his eyes, making them bloodshot and smudged and watery. He feels like a fourteen year old girl. </p>
<p>The show is in Gerard’s town, but in the downtown area, so not really close to his house. Frank figured he’d just skate, as always, maybe try to find some alternative route so he doesn’t have to pass his street or neighborhood. Weird things make Frank nostalgic and weepy, like certain curbs and trees and when the wind blows in a certain way. He saw black boxed dye in the pharmacy the other day and dug his nails so hard into his arm he bled. It’s super inconvenient, especially when Frank is working on living for himself.</p>
<p>Gerard was supposed to come to this show with him. Frank was always taking him to his punk shit when Gerard was more about synths and dreamy vocals. He did like the Misfits, though, but he’d always say it was more for aesthetic purposes. He knew Frank liked it, so he went.</p>
<p>He feels kind of lame walking into the show by himself, even though there is literally no reason to. A lot of people fucking do it. He’s so used to being alone, but also not used to it at all, or at least where it counts. Being alone at school is fine because he’ll never belong; being alone where he’s supposed to fit feels all wrong. He does the weird loner cigarette thing outside the show, strikes up conversation with no one, and goes in when the crowd surges and the amps spike.</p>
<p>It’s this emo band he’s seen twice before, they play covers of nineties screamo that Frank would normally love, none of that stupid pop shit. He does love it, even now. It’s just probably not what he needs: some frustrated sad dudes screaming about death and lost love. The lead singer is in some big striped polo and glasses. Everyone’s a fucking archetype now, apparently. Frank kinda fits the niche, too, but he’s too ratty, erring a little hardcore. That’s what he likes to think.</p>
<p>He thought about trying to hook up with someone at the show, but he’s honestly never had to talk to someone like that. He doesn’t know the rules. And the idea makes his stomach churn, he doesn’t want anyone else’s sweat or skin or cum or breath anywhere near him. He doesn’t want anyone else to see him like that. He doesn’t even know where he’d start.</p>
<p>Mic feedback cuts through the crowd, and then there’s a voice, slightly nasal and rough from use. “Y’know, this is Pencey Prep. We’re from up here too, Belleville, actually. Thanks for coming out—fuck this shit, my girl just broke-up with me. I don’t fucking know what we’re playing, CDs and shitty shirts in the back. Let’s go.” It’s not at all what he needs, and Frank feels like the wind has been knocked out of him just a bit. But it’s cathartic in the short-term and appeals to his masochism. It’s better than cutting himself to pieces.</p>
<p>under a red sky, i told her "i want to die" / and how i cry with no concrete reason why / and have bad dreams every night</p>
<p>The song begins slowly. It’s a twinkling of strings, an alternate of plucking, low and slow and melancholy. The lyrics are eerily reflective, to the point it’s familiar. It’s like they plucked a scene from his life—he guesses he’s giving himself too much credit. He’s really just another sad boy, now with a broken heart. Archetypes.</p>
<p>i feel sickly, like i am lost at sea / and all the girls i used to know are high on ecstasy / and they're much happier than me, i think</p>
<p>He might leave. He’s been leaving his problems behind lately, and this is one of them. It’s sad. He needs mad, he needs energy. Frustration and anger are productive emotions, and it gets really, really fucking bad when he sits in his own sadness for too long. It hits too close to home, too specific. He never did too much X, but Gerard fucking loved that shit. He’d rub all up on Frank like a cat in heat, give him those pretty eyes. Frank curls his fist into a ball, digs his nails into his palm and bangs it against his thigh. The guitars pick up. He lets his body go.</p>
<p>what better way, to put myself in my place? / what better way, to get out of this goddamn place? / sometimes i feel like i'm stuck, stuck in this fucking place / what better way, to put myself in my place?</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It’s raining a little, like the night Gerard fucking smashed his heart into a billion pieces. It’s heavier now, though, actual droplets that keep smacking Franks cheeks and nose and chin. Some even go right in his eyes, but he squints and tries to skate as fast as he can. Once again, the roads are clear, and it’s night time, so it’s easy. There’s less potholes here, anyway.</p>
<p>Besides the rain, his shirt is just a little soaked, concentrated at the front and back collar and pits. It clings to him, sticky and uncomfortable, because it’s his sweat and everyone else’s sweat slipping and sliding where his arms reach the sides of his torso. He’s not squeamish like that, but it just sucks. He still has his jacket, which is always a win, and the cool air feels nice after the adrenaline rush. He did a lot of adderall in the bathroom, too, so he can’t really feel anything. He’s pretty drunk. He’s got a split lip.</p>
<p>It feels like his body is taking him somewhere but he doesn’t know where. His hands are shaking and his teeth are gritted, clenched hard. He’s definitely not going home, so he’s going home—to Gerard’s. He’s used to taking a shower there after shows, usually, even if he eventually goes back to his own house because his mom insists she gets a night with him in the house. He has this sick idea in his head, like he can win Gerard back or some shit. Gerard’s voice is clear in the back of his mind: “You’re fucking psychotic! Why do you make everything so hard for yourself?”’</p>
<p>He pulls up to the curb of Gerard’s, the side with his window, he knows which one it is exactly. Second row up, left, like the rich fuck he is. Three stories. There’s a gravel pathway for show that’s hidden behind some overgrown bushes next to it, right beside it, where Frank settles himself. All the lights in the house are off except for Gerard’s room. It’s so predictable. He didn’t really think he’d get this far—he really didn’t think, at all, until ten minutes ago—so he takes a second to consider his next move. Then, he grabs a pebble.</p>
<p>“Romeo, Romeo, where are thou, fucker,” he’s mumbling to himself. Then he throws it, lighter than he’d like, testing the volume. It cracks out pretty heavy through the stillness of the night, the closest to absolute silence he can get. Fuck it. “Let down your beautiful hair, princess!” He throws the next one harder.</p>
<p>The lock on Gerard’s window is loud because the house is pretty old. It’s one of those romantic balcony styles, that opens out rather than up, covered by a thick curtain. He hears the lock and the push open, metal rubbing together, then the woosh of the curtain and some cursing. A head of tangled black hair and rosy cheeks pokes out. I miss you so fucking much baby, please come back, I’ll do anything. It punches him in the gut.</p>
<p>“I hope you know you’re fucking crazy, Frank,” Gerard says. Frank thought he’d think it was kind of funny, maybe a little charming. Maybe he would’ve in a different context. But Gerard sounds kind of hurt, and if Frank did that to him then he’s really the world’s fucking worst.</p>
<p>“I miss you,” he says, and that’s all, like a fucking dumbass. The more he stands there, the rain getting harder, his chest getting tighter, the drug drip running down the back of his throat, the more apparent it becomes that life isn’t a movie. He’s kind of fucking crazy.</p>
<p>“Frank, fucking—fucking listen to me!” Gerard’s shouting, and his voice is definitely strained. But he remains pretty well composed because Gerard’s strong like that. Strong in the way Frank isn’t. Frank’s not making any noises, but his cheeks are red and his nose is snotty and his eyes are even worse, bleary and flooded. Frank shouts back a weak “I’m listening,” because he is. He wants to do good.</p>
<p>“You’re literally just hurting the both of us,” Gerard starts, and his words meld into tears. Frank feels like a piece of shit. His shoulders fall. He wishes he could make it better, but he’s the one who made it in the first place. “Why does it always have to be a thing? You can’t just fucking leave it! Fucking ever! You gotta do shit like this.”</p>
<p>Frank wipes his nose on his sleeve and looks up with earnest eyes. He looks tired and pale under the moon and the artificial light. “I’m sorry, Gerard. I don’t know. I’m trying to be better.”</p>
<p>Every word makes Gerard look like he’s going to blow up. Truth is, Frank is savoring every second of contact. “Then why are you fucking here.”</p>
<p>And it’s Frank’s turn, a game of anything you can do, I can do better. He’s crying, sobbing into his sleeve for moments at a time, heaving breaths between sentences. His nose is all stuffy. “I shouldn’t, I—I’m fixing my shit. My head is all fucky, I’m too sensitive. Gerard, fucking… Please, just give me some closure.” Gerard’s face goes wonky at that. “Not closure. I just need you. To function. And that sounds really scary, but I don’t mean it in a scary way. You get me and I literally think you’re my soulmate and being away from you hurts, like, physically. Just give me, like, another night, or something.” He visibly winces, but he really doesn’t mean it like that. Gerard kinda smirks, just for a split second.</p>
<p>“You sound like a fucking douchebag,” he says, and the smirk kinda appears again, but you can tell he’s really fighting it. He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and shakes his hair in his face like he’s stressed and just trying to hide away. “I’m gonna come downstairs and unlock the door. Don’t be loud.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The inside of Gerard’s house still looks familiar, which is nice. But the atmosphere is off, and he feels like a guest. He supposes he is now, even though Gerard’s parents had always been concerned about him, in the troubled kid way. They remained mostly oblivious and kind. He shoots a glare at the back of Gerard’s head, who turns around from his desk to look at him, getting up from his chair. The tears are still flowing for both of them, but slower. The radiator hums. Frank has one of Gerard’s blankets around his shoulders, sitting on his duvet, and his shoes are wet, downstairs by the front door.</p>
<p>“I-I know I get you. That’s why I need a fucking break. It’s so intense and, like, I’m not fucking there anymore. I’m tired,” Gerard says. Frank feels like it’s groundhog day. But he can’t get mad at Gerard, not again, not with the defeat in his eyes.</p>
<p>“You’ve been different since your parents put you on that thing,” Frank retorts. “It all feels so superficial, and I can’t wrap my fucking head around it. You don’t fucking get it. It’s like a fight in me, ‘cause I feel bad. I know I’m so fucking hard to deal with—”</p>
<p>Gerard cuts Frank off, and he looks annoyed. “Superficial? I’m superficial because I’m not fucking miserable all the time anymore?” He gets closer to Frank, and maybe not quite in his face, but close enough that it’s intimate and real. “I’m not fucking different, Frank. I’m okay for the first time in my fucking life, and I’m trying to manage. Do you think everything is okay for me? I tried to fucking kill myself eight months ago, remember? We popped pills together every fucking day for months leading up to that shit. I put in the fucking work and got better—maybe I’m ‘superficial’ and ‘different’ because you’re the only thing keeping me tied to that shit. I’m still trying to get better.”</p>
<p>Frank’s crying hard, again, but he’s trying to let Gerard talk. “I don’t want you to be sad,” he says. “I don’t want you to die.”</p>
<p>Gerard’s eyes go soft. “Baby,” he says, and Frank tries to remind himself that it’s probably just a slip. “I know. I don’t mean to say that. I just—it fucking eats at me, you know? I see the pain in everything you do, Frank. You don’t live, you go through the motions, you know. I know you know, we’ve talked about it. And—And I’ve heard you say some pretty fucked up shit, baby,” maybe it’s not a slip, “and you hurting makes me hurt. It’s a lot of stress. And I know you’re still doing fucked shit, and I can’t be around that. I—I still want to, you know. But if something, like, happens to you, if you, like, hurt yourself… I love you so much. I can’t be a therapist anymore.”</p>
<p>Frank wants to scream, crumble onto the floor, take back anything he ever did and said. His stomach is in knots. He’s pretty much disgusted with himself. And there’s a pair of lips, soft and wet on his own. He wants to pull Gerard off of him and tell him he’s dirty, to stay far, far away, he’s making the right choice by leaving. There’s always been something a little rotten about him. But he slips his tongue into Gerard’s mouth instead, and lays back on the bed so Gerard can get on top of him.</p>
<p>It’s so fucking good, holy shit, like a puzzle piece has been put into place. It’s like what Frank’s body has been craving all along. He’s never been fucked up like this so fast, rubbing his half-hard cock against Gerard’s hip. Gerard sneaks a hand between them, grasping and rubbing at Frank. Then he fumbles with Frank’s button, and shoves his shit all the way in, rubbing at the head of his dick before reaching for the base. He pulls away from the kiss to shove his face into Frank’s neck, right near his ear. His breath is hot. “You leak like a fucking faucet. It’s so hot,” he says, voice hoarse and whispering. Frank’s cock stiffens just a bit more. “You want it so fucking bad, Frankie.”</p>
<p>Frank can feel Gerard’s own cock against his groin, the junction where his thigh meets his cock. Gerard’s huge, thick and heavy. It’s really impossible to miss. He wants it so, so bad. “Can I—” he starts, but it’s a little breathless because Gerard starts to suck on his neck. He gives it a few seconds, lets a shiver coarse through his body before he begins to ask again. “Can I suck you off?”</p>
<p>Gerard’s giving him a nod, pushing back so he’s kneeling and can undo his belt. It’s thick, with a cheesy bat front and center, and it’s kind of really sexy. Especially when Gerard’s hard cock is straining against his jeans, and Frank can’t help but reach forward, push his own hands past Gerard’s waistband to pull it out.</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t really do teasing. He wastes no time getting his mouth on the head, swiping his tongue flat against the tip. He sucks as his head sinks down, and Gerard’s pushing down on the back of it, a firm grasp in his hair as he pushes his cock into his mouth. Frank gags a little when it hits the back, but he likes it like that. Gerard knows. He keeps pushing. Frank hums and closes his eyes.</p>
<p>When he pulls off, there’s a trail of spit, and a bunch running down his chin, some on his chest. His eyes are super fucking bloodshot, and his hair is sticking up in every direction. He’s coughing a little, and Gerard doesn’t even tuck himself away before he’s reaching forward, pushing Frank back to get at his dick. He cups a hand under his ass and sinks down. It feels good, but the knots in his stomach won’t quite go away. He just tries to enjoy it, and hopes he can stay the night.</p>
<p>When he can’t stay the night, he has to keep himself from putting his skateboard through Gerard’s fucking window. He does kick his car pretty hard, and swing the board against the body of it, though. No broken glass this time, however; that’s a little too big of a fuck you, and he’s trying to prove he’s not crazy. When he spits on the front window and starts whisper-yelling shit, he realizes he’s doing the exact opposite. He dents the license plate and calls it a night.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>When he’s still in bed at four in the afternoon the next day, his mom comes into his room. He’s fully beneath his covers, in a sweatshirt he actually stole from Gerard because it’s ratty and kinda small and he wouldn’t care. He’s rubbing his legs together to try and stay warm, especially when she lifts a corner of the cover and a gust of cold air comes through.</p>
<p>“What’s up?” his mom says. Her voice is stern, but she’s just hard on the outside. She thinks he’s being lazy.</p>
<p>He keeps thinking of the word Gerard keeps saying. He’s tired. He’s exhausted. It’s exhausting. Frank fucking tires him out. Frank tires himself out, he’s realized. He fucked it all up, and now he’s left with a fat depressive episode and himself, some microwavable waffles if he’s lucky. So maybe it’s a miracle his mom even tried to confront him about it, even if she literally just thinks he’s being a fucky teenager. He doesn’t blame her for that. He very much is a fucky teen.</p>
<p>Frank looks at her. They have the same eyes, fucking huge and droopy and so full of emotion, defined brows that reveal all their secrets. Her lips are fuller than his, though, his jaw more squared off. When he looks back at her eyes, they are confused, and a little softer.</p>
<p>“Have you been crying?” She says, and wipes a thumb under his eyes. She sits on his bed to rub his back and, like, talk. It’s weird, but really good weird. Usually they fight or ignore each other. Her voice is still kind of stern, like she doesn’t know how to be nice to him. But she’s scratching his head and rubbing between his shoulder blades and it really feels like love.</p>
<p>Frank takes a second to swallow, but the lump continues to form. “Yeah,” he says. His voice shakes until it’s more of a croak; his mom coos in the back, something like a fond nickname he hasn’t heard in a while. He must look really upset. He is. He turns, not to face her, but so it’s easier for her to rub his back.</p>
<p>“And I guess you’re not gonna tell me why,” she says, a sadness in her voice. He doesn’t feel bad. She made that distance.</p>
<p>But why is it a big fucking deal? Frank has this weird thing, where he doesn’t care about people knowing he’s gay, or bi, or not straight or whatever. Plenty of people have seen him all up in Gerard’s shit, tongue down the throat, hand on the ass. But he does, and he doesn’t know why. Probably societal preconditioning, a dose of toxic masculinity; conservative Italian catholic values, more-so from his grandfather. If he knew Frank was gay, he’d be fucking pissed. He’ll never say it. Truth is, guys kinda make him shy and bashful; sex in general does.</p>
<p>It’s another thing that knots up his chest. It’s like when your mind goes to the worst possible thing you can do. “My b—boyfriend, uh, broke up with me.” He tacks on a smile at the end, for some reason, which probably looks extra pathetic.</p>
<p>“With the fuckin’ Subaru always parked out front. He needs to wash his hair,” she says, holding him closer, and he knows she’s trying to make him feel better. But he starts to cry, because he misses running his hands through Gerard’s greasy hair in the backseat during lame parties. She makes a noise, something of an “oh no!” and holds him even closer. He lets her. “You really liked him, huh.”</p>
<p>Frank nods, laughing weakly, lightly. “Yeah. Almost three years.”</p>
<p>His mom’s face falls. He knows she feels bad, she literally didn’t know, or at least for that long. “That makes me feel pretty shitty,” she admits. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Frank moves over so she can lay beside him. She takes the invite. “It’s all good.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>He’s been plagued with vivid dreams of Gerard since they fucked again. More like flashbacks. Sometimes Gerard leaves in the end, sometimes he doesn’t. They’re usually somewhere familiar. Frank tosses and turns his bed, clenching his eyes shut and twisting to find the best position. But the images remain burned into his retinas, and because of that, he can’t sleep. When he does, he wakes up more miserable than he was the night before.</p>
<p>The former is better than the latter, if he had to choose, and that’s where he’s at right now. He’s tired, lids heavy, under-eyes bruised half moons. He looks a little gaunt. He’s running on Red Bull, the flavor Gerard hated most, but that doesn’t mean he’s awake. His body just is, making his heart thump, his fingers twitch.</p>
<p>He’s in sixth period with his head on his desk to try and stop the nausea. He hopes his teacher is chill and doesn’t bother him. He’s all the way in the back left corner, tucked away, and it’s a full class, and she’s pretty absorbed in the Cold War. His chances of invisibility are good. Everytime he starts to nod off, though, the caffeine jerks him back awake, and the kid next to him starts snickering. He’s kinda preppy, but real douchey preppy instead of put together. Frank doesn’t hate all preppy kids—some are pretty fucking funny—but there’s different breeds of them. Frank doesn’t like this one, it’s yappy and annoying. It only wears pastels.</p>
<p>Frank gives him a look like he’s baring his teeth. There can’t be too much umph in it considering his current state, but he knows he can shoot daggers. He glances at the clock, squinting to focus on the big hand. There’s five minutes until the end of class. He has an off period and then Gym, so he’s just going to leave after this, because he has a notoriously shitty attendance record to uphold. He also could not run around the track even once in his current state, nor would he want to. His foot starts tapping, all restless, toes curling and uncurling in his shoe. He hates this school, this town, and now he really has no escape. He fucked that one up.</p>
<p>The kid next to him gives a loud shift. Like he wants Frank to know he’s there. Maybe he just has a loud presence, maybe Frank just doesn’t like him. But they sneak a look at each other at the same time and he knows it’s mutual.</p>
<p>He’s spent so long wanting to castrate this fucking kid that the time passes by quicker than he thought. Usually the last five minutes are grueling. Gerard’s voice rings through his head for a second, unprovoked. Why do you always need something to be mad at? it says. Suddenly he’s even angrier. At this kid. At this school. At himself.</p>
<p>He slings his backpack across his back as soon as the bell rings, geared up to do so since two minutes before. He doesn’t even bother to really keep much school supplies anymore. It just kinda disappears, gets ruined or doodled in or both. He’s the first one out, not in the halls but the classroom, and he’s got his eyes on the prize. The fucking door. It’s actually sunny today, like blue skies, no cloud in the sky shit. The rays of gold come through the windows of the industrial doors, glinting off the cheap silver metal. The outdoors looks like paradise. He’s really in a fucking jail cell.</p>
<p>And he gets there. He really does, the air tinged cold on his face and fingers, pulling his zip-up a  little closer because his shirt is thin. He keeps his board with all the bikes, locked up towards the end so it doesn’t get lost. It looks super pathetic, but it was a game changer when he found he could sneak the wire through the front truck. He kneels down to untangle it, cheaply made and half broken, when there’s a pressure on his back. A hand. He shrugs hard, jabbing his elbow back into nothing: “Yo, get the fuck off me.”</p>
<p>When he looks back, the kid who sat next to him is looming above him, grin sharp. He looks like a shark; blonde hair overgrown, arched eyebrows and big teeth. By the way he grabs the back of Frank’s shirt, he’s not just trying to play or saying hi. Frank starts twisting, throwing in some kicks. Unfortunately, he’s pretty small. He used to be insecure about it, still kind of is, but lesser so. He puts up a good fight, because he’s scrappy. But in these situations, especially with six-foot Lacrosse players, he tends to lose.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>He gets home as quick as he can, doesn’t even try to stop the blood. It’s mostly just his nose and a headache and some other sore spots, but nothing too bad. The kid was just looking for something to entertain his male macho whatever, probably. They hunt for sport, no logical reasoning besides predatory instinct and boredom.</p>
<p>His mom isn’t home, as per usual. She knows he’s gay now, but she’s distant as ever. It doesn’t bother him too much, but he was stupid to get his hopes up at all. Nothing changed. Life isn’t a movie. He doesn’t get the boy in the end, and he guesses he doesn’t get the family, either. He’s just fucking faggy. He doesn’t know why he thought anything would happen in the first place. It’s not a big deal.</p>
<p>He’s up in his bathroom. The light is yellow and ugly, with a weird beige color scheme, and it never feels truly dry. But he doesn’t need to share it with anyone, so he doesn’t mind. He has a ridiculous amount of paper towel shoved up his nostrils, the right bleeding more than the left, and a bunch crumbled in the sink, half-soggy from the lingering humidity and toothpaste spit. His shirt, also covered in blood, lays at his feet. He touches his nose and winces. Then he does it again, but instead of focusing on the pain, he focuses on himself. Then he gives himself a nice, hard look in the mirror.</p>
<p>You know those people you just don’t like? He thinks he’s got one of those faces. Like, annoying proportions or something. He’s always been pretty neutral on his looks. He just never really cared. But he wants to punch the guy in the mirror. When he moves his face, scrunches his nose and gets closer, he feels like he can’t process the concept of a reflection.<br/>
He looks beaten down, literally and figuratively. His eyes are bloodshot now, hair kinda fucked up, lips chapped. He has blood everywhere, a bruise on his cheek too. His shirt collar is stretched out. He also has weird, clumsy mannerisms and cartoonishly large eyes with shitty hair and chubby cheeks. He looks at his body, the awkward mix of wiry and baby fat, sharp and soft. His tattoos are pretty cool, but he’s got hair dispersed on his chest and stomach all weird, and he just doesn’t like what he sees.</p>
<p>He never really had a hard time with physical self-loathing, that was more Gerard’s style. His depression was, and is, more existential, more why rather than what. Gerard was all about the aesthetics, which makes sense, crazy artist mind or whatever. But looking at himself like this, through that lens, it’s driving him crazy. It makes sense why Gerard was so fucking neurotic all the time. Everything was always dark and he’d bitch at Frank through the hunger pains. They got into so many fights over that shit. And Frank isn’t about to start skipping meals, but it does make him feel like shit. His own toxic thoughts, but also his complacency in Gerard’s, and how he couldn’t even take that away.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>His face is minorly cut but swollen, particularly bad on his cheek and nose. But particularly isn’t horrible, and Frank honestly thinks it looks kinda badass. He’s looking in the mirror again, not in the same way as this wave of teenage self-hatred has pulled back to collect and swell before it returns. He needed a shower and a nap and a healthy dose of nihilism, some music listening. Cool-down shit. He even worked out a little bit.</p>
<p>It’s night time again, and he can’t sleep, so he decides to hit the park. Skate park. It makes him feel like he’s in middle school, which it shouldn’t, but no kids in his town skate, and it’s pretty small. So he goes into, you guessed it!, Gerard’s town. And that’s fine. He’s not going to stand outside of his window like a fucking idiot again, like Lloyd Dobler, like an ass kisser. Even if he did get shit out of it, it wasn’t what he wanted. And he should really probably steer clear of the whole area, but his impulse control is absolutely fucking horrid.</p>
<p>It’s probably the closest destination he goes to regularly in Gerard’s town. He reaches the chain-link fence quickly. Frank thinks skate parks are underwhelming and best served at night. He learned to skate relatively late because he never had a sibling to teach him or whatever, but when he picked it up, he picked it up fast. When he first went to a skate park, he remembers just being underwhelmed by the atmosphere. There’s so much mystique around a fucking skate park, where the bums of high school go to crush energy drinks and film themselves doing kickflips, because of movies and shit. Slacker culture. Nirvana. Crapitalism. Frank doesn’t think he’s cool, and he’s met some of the biggest losers of his fucking life at the park. Truthfully, the most mystical thing he’s seen at the skate park are drug deals and weird emo kids making out.</p>
<p>The light pollution is low tonight for some reason, sky clear, so he can see the stars he usually can’t. The first thing he does is stick the joint from his ear in his mouth and light it. Then he sits and watches them for a little. Maybe what he needed was to get beat up a little. He’s kind of excited to skate, he hasn’t in a while, and he feels like he can think, which he also hasn’t done for a while. He’s been on autopilot, survival mode, whatever shit his therapist can come up with. Time seems infinite smack in the middle of the night, when it’s a little melancholy and it’s just getting warm enough where you don’t have to wear a jacket or many layers. He’s finally not rushing.</p>
<p>He takes his time with the joint, zoning out. Though he can think, when he thinks he can only think of how tired he is and then fantasizes about Gerard. But he can process the emotions kind-of logically right now, the first time he’s really been able to. He’ll be back to screaming and crying and throwing fits tomorrow, but it’s a moment of strange clarity and a moment of strange hope. It doesn’t feel very real.</p>
<p>And he’s nearly at roach when the fence rustles and clinks, lock unfastening, door swinging. The dream smashes into a million pieces because the first thing he thinks is cop, but then he sees a mop of black hair, and he physically fights the urge to gag. It’s so zero to one-hundred, so nerve inducing. He swallows thickly, averting his eyes, taking a last hit before rubbing the filter against the concrete. Like he has anywhere else to look. Gerard just sits down next to him, and Frank is convinced it’s not real. A dream, a stimulation, a hallucination. Anything.</p>
<p>“I’m really fucking drunk,” Gerard slurs, and that’s really him. It’s Gerard as he knew him. “Not gonna say anything ‘cause that would be shitty. But I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>He gets this weird cute lispy thing going on when he’s drunk, a little breathlessness. Frank can’t help but smile a bit, and shifts his thigh to touch Gerard's. Just an experiment. He shrugs, mumbles. “I’m sorry too.”</p>
<p>Gerard looks at him then, finally. They’ve acknowledged each other’s presences every way except visually, Frank’s eyes personally fixated on the curve of the bowled halfpipe. Gerard looks at him and gives him this smile. He has some of the saddest eyes Frank has ever seen. “We can’t be together, Frank. We’ll fucking ruin each other. I’m supposed to be sober right now.”</p>
<p>His brain is pure static at this point, and he’s just trying to sift through the noise. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>Gerard looks down, then. “But it was a long time coming. And I really miss you.”</p>
<p>And they’re back to square one.</p>
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